New New York
by Kalistrata
Summary: My nick was formerly Maquina . . . A little Bosc angst concerning September 11th . . . rated G, but deals with some tough issues surrounding September 11th.


This is  partially a songfic using the (well, who else?) Cranberries song New New York from their Stars CD and partially some good old-fashioned Bosco angst!  I'm rating this G, but its all about September 11th.  It's not graphic in any way, just Bosco working through some feelings.  Check out this song, but do it legally . . . Dolores and the boys earned it and deserve your money.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em . . . .just borrowing them . . . don't get all huffy . . .

NEW NEW YORK

**New, new, new**

            Bosco sat on the roof of his building.  Lately, he'd taken to coming up here when he had to think.  His apartment made him claustrophobic sometimes, and he just couldn't take it tonight.  Things were changing, and he didn't like it.

**            New, new, new**

            Things were changing.  Things had changed.  He could remember when times were normal.  A year ago, things were normal between him and Faith.  Two years ago, things had been normal in life.  September 11th hadn't scarred New York City yet.  September 11th hadn't scarred him.

**            New New York Skyline**

**            Wounds will heal in time**

**            Don't crumble, don't dismay**

**            There's a new New York today**

            He studied the skyline, the different skyline.  Even after looking at that skyline every day since that day, he never got used to it.  He never would.  To him, it was like something had been amputated from his city.  Something important, something vital.  Now the city was different, _he_ was different.  

**            I look across these city streets**

**            My heart is numb, it still beats**

**            Nothing to say**

**            There's nothing to say**

            He turned his attention to the streets.  People walked as if nothing had changed.  Did these people remember the terror of that day?  He knew they did, remembered it vividly for some, casually for others.  He bent his head and sighed.  He'd survived that day, but many hadn't.  He felt numb when he thought of it, still in shock.  He would never be able to understand what had happened that day, or accept it.  To see the Towers gone was like believing that he'd had a leg cut off.  You still believe you have it, at least for a while, and you feel the phantom pains.

            **I look across this empty room**

**            My heart is still in gloom**

**            There's nothing to say**

**            I only can pray**__

            A deep depression settled over him and he drew his arms around himself.  November was cold in New York.  The dark sky and chilling wind fit his mood.  He wanted to talk to someone.  Faith, especially.  But she wouldn't talk and he didn't want to drag her down with his memories.

            _You can talk to God._

            Bosco started at the sudden thought, almost a voice, but dismissed it.  God wouldn't want to hear what he had to say to him.  Bosco had nothing but scorn for Him.

            _You can tell God whatever you want.  Be honest._

            Those words drifted back to him from the one Sunday School class he went to as a kid.  He'd asked what to tell God, what to ask Him.

            He scowled.  "I don't know what to say to you," he started, then paused.  That was a true statement.  "I don't know if I'm actually talking to someone, or just the air, or myself.  But I don't understand.  I don't understand anything that has happened in my life the past two years.  Why'd you let it happen, God?  A lot of people died that day.  Why did Faith get hurt and not me?  If you're God, why didn't you stop it?  Can you?  Will you?"

            He realized he was angry and had his fists clenched. 

            **New New York skyline**

**            Wounds will heal in time**

**            Don't crumble don't dismay**

**            It's a new New York today**

            He pushed God from his mind and looked at the skyline, his anger burning.  He wished he were still a Ranger, able to go out and fight the terrorists who'd delivered such a blow to America, to stand up and refuse to be beaten.

**            I look across these city streets**

**            My heart is cold, it beats**

**            Thirtieth of May**

**            Ground Zero today**

            He remembered the last time he went to The Pit.  It was three days after last Memorial Day.  He'd stood on the platform overlooking it and just stared.  In his mind, he'd seen the Towers, standing, people milling about.  With his eyes, he saw desolation and destruction.  People behind him took pictures, some talking softly, others ignoring the sights in front of them and talking as if it were a normal tourist attraction.

            His heart clenched as he heard sirens in the distance.  

            **New, new, new**

**            New, new, new**

            He hated this.  Hated it all.  

            **I get on my knees and pray**

**            For the heroes of that day**

**            No more comfort I can find**

**            For the loved ones left behind**

            "I hate you, God," he said out loud, defiantly.  So many brothers killed.  Firefighters.  Cops.  Port Authority.  Civilians, even.  

            _Do you?_

            "I hate what's happened.  I hate that I have no control over it.  I just hate it!" he yelled, throwing a pebble he'd been rolling in his hands.

            He'd halfway thought that yelling at God would give him comfort.  It didn't.  It made him feel worse.

            He remembered a woman he'd seen near the EPA tent on one of his guard runs at Ground Zero.  She stood just outside, her eyes closed, her lips moving.  When she'd opened her eyes, he'd asked her what she was doing.

            _"Praying for understanding.  Peace.  Comfort," she smiled ruefully._

_            "Did it work?"_

_            She nodded slowly.  "All God asks for is an open mind and an open heart.  He didn't make this happen.  He wept tears for every person who died and knew them intimately."_

_            "He still let it happen," Bosco said rudely._

_            "Would it be fair if God made you worship him?  Would that be right?"_

_            "No.  I should be able to worship anyone or want, or no one."_

_            She cocked her head slightly.  "Then why should he impede the free will of those men who ran those jets into the building?  Or why should he let us chose what we eat for breakfast or if you should shoot a suspect with a gun?  If he made all those decisions for us, would we really be better off?"_

He pushed himself off the pavement and started down the stairs.  He didn't want to think of this.

            He wandered the streets for a while, his hands in his jacket pockets.  It was full dark before he knew it.  

            Bosco looked up at the buildings to find out where he was.  He discovered, with no little surprise, that he was in front of Trinity Church, the tiny church near Ground Zero.

            Without a second thought, he went inside.

            The building was warm and quiet.  He unzipped his jacket, but left it on.

            He made his way up the row and sat in an empty pew.  He drifted his gaze over the familiar scenes of a church.  Christ, crucified, bleeding and dying.  It never made sense to him that if He were God that he could die.  It seemed He was bigger than that.

            He heard a noise behind him and turned.

            "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to disturb you," a voice said softly.

            Bosco stood.  "That's okay.  I was just leaving."

            The woman came into view and he gaped.

            "I see you remember me," she said.  "I certainly remember you."

            "Yeah, I remember you," he said quietly.

            The woman from Ground Zero leaned against a pillar.  She was dressed in jeans and a thick sweatshirt with the name of a university on it.  Her dark hair was pulled back and her blue eyes studied him unabashedly.

            "I never introduced myself," she said.  "Kit MacKenzie."

            "Maurice Boscorelli.  People call me Bosco.  What are you doing here this late at night?"

            "I like to come here when it's quiet.  It helps me think and concentrate on my prayer."

            "You pray a lot, huh?"

            Her smile was almost like that of a child's, mischievous and carried no hidden meaning.  "All the time."

            "I still don't understand," he said quietly.  "I came for answers."

            "I can give you what I have.  But real answers come from God."

            "How'd I know you were gonna say that?"

            "'Cause it's true?"

            "I've been thinking about it tonight.  Actually, a long time.  It doesn't make sense for a God who supposedly cares to let something like that happen, to just sit alongside and watch it like it were a movie."

            Her expression turned thoughtful.  "You probably don't remember it, because you were down at the site, but before anyone really knew what happened, the networks estimated that on a normal day, you could have anywhere from 5000-50,000 people in those two buildings.  Did you ever wonder why some people didn't go to work one morning?  Sure, one stayed home because his kid turned five that day, or they got stuck in traffic or what have you.  How many people have you talked to _should_ have been there, but they weren't?  Or why were some of the planes only half-full?"

            "That still doesn't explain why almost 3000 people died that day anyway."

            She sighed.  "You know, people have been trying to explain why bad things happen to good people for thousands of years.  The ultimate problem is free will."

            "You've been watching the Matrix a little too much."

            She grinned.  "Tell me, for God to really be God, does He have to be perfect?"

            Bosco thought about it.  "If God is real, then He has to be perfect.  If he's not, then he can't be real."

            Kit nodded approvingly.  "Is rape evil?"

            He narrowed his eyes.  "Of course."

            "That's essentially what it would amount to if God forced us to believe in Him.  It's effectively rape.  God cannot force Himself on us without being contradictory to His perfect nature.  If He did contradict Himself, he wouldn't be God."

            Bosco sat down and rubbed his hand over his eyes.  "This is crazy.  I'm sitting here debating religion with someone I hardly know."

            Kit sat down next to him and leaned back in the pew.  "God sent you here for a reason."

            "I thought He didn't interfere with free will."

            She grinned again.  "That doesn't mean He doesn't give out hints."

            He sighed.  "You act like He's right there, like you can talk to Him anytime."

            "He is, if you only talk to Him.  He can provide the comfort you seek, Bosco.  You just have to let Him."

            She stood and he grabbed her arm gently.  "Why are you here?  Why do you do this?"

            Kit smiled sadly and sat back down.  "I was a cop once, Bosco.  A lot like you.  In control.  Confident.  Then September 11th hit."  She looked away.  "My brother was a firefighter.  He died.  He was a Christian and his wife was also.  She helped me see what I needed most."

            "What was that?" he asked softly.

            She locked eyes with him.  "Hope, Bosco.  Hope."

            He sat on the pew, staring up at Jesus on the cross.  Kit sat quietly beside him.

            "Are you praying?" he asked.

            "Yes."

            "For what?"

            "For you."

            That struck him like nothing had before.  She was praying for _him_?  "Why?"

            "I'm praying that he'll give me the words to answer your questions."

            "Why did he have to die?"

            She was silent for a moment, then softly and quietly, she laughed. 

            "What?" he asked suspiciously.

            Kit turned her shocking blue eyes into his.  "Nothing.  He just gave me the words to speak to you in an old song I learned as a kid.  'Oh how He loves you and me.  He gave His life, what more could He give.'  He died because that was the most He could give.  He didn't give us half-salvation.  He died so we could enter into Heaven purely on His blood."

            "I can't believe that He'd just give us something."

            She smiled slightly.  "Bosco, He loves us so much.  He loves you so much.  He died, and when he was on that cross, He thought specifically of you, and me, and my brother Jack, and of the man on death row for murder.  He wanted us to realize that _nothing_, absolutely _nothing we do can get us to Heaven.  That is a gift we can get only from Him."_

            "This is overwhelming."

            "Yes, trying to understand even a small part of God is always overwhelming."

            "Do you come here a lot?"

            "Every night."

            He was silent for a while.  Finally: "I'd like to come back sometime.  I've still got a lot of questions."

            "God accepts questions.  He encourages them."

            He stood and she stood also.  "Thank you, Kit."  He paused.  "And I'm sorry about your brother."

            Surprisingly, she smiled broadly.  "I know where to find him, Bosco.  And I know I'll see him again one day."

            They walked to the door together, and before he opened it, she stopped him.  "This was Jack's Bible, Bosco.  I'd like you to take it."

            He pushed the leather-bound book back to her.

            "I can't take that," he protested.

            "Please.  Jack's notes will help you, I think.  And I trust you'll be back at any rate.  I can always get it back from you.  Start in John.  You can look it up in the glossary."

            He accepted the book from her and ran his hands over the cover.  It had been a long time since he'd touched a Bible.

            He started down the street and felt something odd in his chest.  It took him a few minutes to identify it.  Hope.

            **They won't tear us apart.**

            Those terrorists hadn't won, he realized.  They can't win.  They don't have what matters.  They don't have it.  Salvation.  Power.  They don't have hope.

            **They won't tear us apart.**

**            They won't tear us apart.**

Hope.

As a side note: Yes, it got away from me a little bit, but I hope it was though-provoking.  I worked down at Ground Zero for a while in Dec. '01/Jan '02 and I saw a lot of these kinds of questions being asked.  I also visited this Trinity church (I'm not sure the exact name of it) and don't remember if they have a Crucifixion image up or not, that was just for me.  I do remember that it's a gorgeous church and was used as a resting station for the workers.  It has a lot of history and I would suggest that anyone who pays tribute at Ground Zero also visit this church.

For more info on some of the theological stuff I touched on in here, try (and since I can't put a link in here, we'll do it this way . . .erggg) str.org (with the www in front of it), click on Apologetics, then Answering the Problem of Evil.  There are several articles here that discuss the issue of evil and suffering in the world and might give you insight and depth on where I was coming from.  I honestly didn't intend for it to get this far, but since my fingers kept going, I figured I'd give it to you guys.  I hope, even if you don't believe in Him, that this made you think about what you believe and how you handle and explain evil and suffering in your own mind.  Feel free to email me too at al_the_firewoman@yahoo.com.  


End file.
